Binary - Michael Crichton [32]
The old man waved and leaned on his broom. 'You looking for Mr Johnson?'
'Yes,' Graves said.
'Just missed him,' the old man said. 'Left a couple minutes ago.'
'Damn,' Graves said. 'You know where he went?'
'No idea,' the old man said. 'He's a strange one. I guess rich people get that way.' He pointed to a corner of the room. 'I mean, look at that,' he said. There were several boxes stacked in the corner. 'Now what am I supposed to do with that? Oh, bring in plenty of it, says Mr Johnson. And then he doesn't touch it.'
Graves looked at the boxes. 'What's in them?'
'Detergent,' the old man said. 'Gallon jugs of detergent. He wanted ten of them. Don't ask me why - he didn't touch them.'
'When did he ask for them?' Graves said. He walked ever and opened one of the cardboard boxes. Inside was a jug marked KEN-ALL 7588 INDUSTRIAL DETERGENT.
'Last week. Wanted to be sure he had them.'
'What's this stuff normally used for?'
The old man shrugged and continued sweeping. 'This is an airfield,' he said. 'We use a lot of it to get grease off parts. That stuff will cut anything. Axle grease, anything, cuts it right off.'
Graves nodded.
Across the hangar Lewis was bent over. 'Have a look at this,' he said. He pointed to a small plastic bag on the concrete floor.
'Dozens of those around,' the old man said. 'All over the floor when I came in.'
Graves picked up the bag, sniffed it, touched the inside surface. There was some kind of milky, oily stuff inside.
'He's been getting this place ready for a week,' the old man said. 'Bring in equipment, take out equipment, new stuff, old stuff. Damnedest thing you ever saw. For instance, he has this washing machine -'
'Washing machine?'
'Sure. It's still here.' He pointed to the corner. 'You're probably too young to remember those things.'
Graves walked over to it. It was an old-fashioned hand-operated tub washing machine with two rollers mounted above for a wringer. The rollers were operated with a crank. Beyond the rollers was a long, flat tray of highly polished metal.
Graves looked at the manufacturer's label: WESTINGHOUSE. The year was 1931.
'Now what,' asked the old man, 'does Mr Johnson want with an old washing machine? Huh?'
Graves began to feel nervous. For the first time all day, he felt that Wright was too far ahead of him, that the clues were too subtle, that the game was beyond him. A washing machine?
Lewis touched the roller assembly. 'I guess you could squeeze out a thin strip of anything on that machine,' he said, 'assuming it had the right consistency. A putty kind of consistency.'
Plastic bags on the floor, boxes of industrial detergent in the corner - ordered but unused - and a washing machine. Then he remembered.
'Where's the pump?'
'I don't know,' Lewis said. 'But it doesn't matter. Look over here.' He pointed to some equipment near the washing machine. A canvas tarp was draped over it; he pulled it away.
'Spray gun and four cans of paint.' He bent over. 'Black, yellow, white, red.' 'He was using the pump to spray paint?' 'That'd be my guess,' Lewis said. Graves looked around the room. 'What'd he spray it onto?'
'Whatever it was, he took it with him. Wait a minute.' Lewis was again bent over. 'Have a look at this.'
He moved another tarp to reveal a full rubber diving wet suit, a full face mask that covered eyes, nose, and mouth, and a small air tank - one of the three that Graves had seen Wright purchase earlier in the day.
There were also several black rubber loops of different sizes.
'Just one suit?'
'Looks like it,' Lewis said. He moved the suit with his foot, spreading it flat on the floor.
'Wright's size?'
'Roughly. But these black loops. . .'
'I counted six,' Lewis said. 'Four little ones, one big one, and one medium.'
'What the hell did he use them for?'
The old man came over and stood by them, staring down at the rubber suit. 'You ask me,' he said, 'he's just a crazy man. Rich people get that way.' He sighed. 'Ten gallons of detergent. Now what am I going to do with that?'
Graves was tense in the